


Certainties Disappear

by Snow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospital, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow/pseuds/Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The limp is the first injury I ignore for Sherlock, but it's not the last one.  Most of my injuries are minor scrapes and bruises, things I would ignore anyway.  It's not like I've never worked through injuries before.  I've practically made a career out of it, twice over.</em></p><p>Inspired by You Must Love Me from Evita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certainties Disappear

There's a part of me that has always expected to be left behind, ever since that time Sherlock left me at the first crime scene, limping in the direction of a taxi. He expects me to keep up with him, but when I can't he's not bothered by continuing on alone.

I know Sherlock doesn't need me at his side, but I need him. Having someone to follow and listen to is good for me; it helps me tune out the pain of my leg, the pain of living with the bombs and gunfire and screams still going off in my head.

The pain, though, is still there. I don't think Sherlock knows. I mean, I know he knows about the nightmares; that part is unavoidable. The problem is that he's predisposed to believe in his own cleverness, so when I pretend that the pain from my leg is entirely gone - that I can move completely normally after limping for months - he accepts it, even if he must know, on some level, that it doesn't make sense.

The limp is the first injury I ignore for Sherlock, but it's not the last one. Most of my injuries are minor scrapes and bruises, things I would ignore anyway. It's not like I've never worked through injuries before. I've practically made a career out of it, twice over.

The knife that was wedged into my leg missed everything major, but no part of the human body is truly extraneous. I haven't left my hospital bed yet, but I know that the limp will be harder to suppress after this. I'm still willing to try.

Sherlock isn't in the chair by the side of the bed. I don't know why I expected him to be. He's not a man I can easily picture in a hospital, and he could likely tell before I was admitted that the injuries weren't anything life-threatening.

Maybe he could tell then that I wouldn't walk the same. Maybe he knows already that I won't be nearly as useful anymore.

Maybe he's off on a case, stopping a serial killer before someone else dies. Maybe he's hunting down the man who stabbed me. I giggle, the thought appearing hilarious to my current, drugged, mind-set.

I suppose that there is a part of me that hoped he had been coaxed away from my hospital bed by a patient nurse, or barred from my room because even his best attempts at manipulation fail when he can't provide a connection between us other than that we live together. The nurse who comes to check on my IVs and summarise the damage to me doesn't mention him, though, and Sherlock's not the sort of man who passes unmentioned.

Sherlock doesn't visit me at all, though he does send many texts that don't do any good, as my access to my mobile is highly limited.

Mycroft has a card sent, the text of which reads only, "You've now conclusively proven that you make my brother more rational. There's therefore no need for you to ever repeat this experiment of how he does without you. Mycroft."

It's the first sign I have that Sherlock might be missing me.

The second is when the taxi deposits me on Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson is standing just inside, looking at me with something like relief on her face. "He's been anxious all day," she says, and I keep myself from snapping out a suggestion that maybe then he should have been there when they released me, because it's not Mrs. Hudson's fault that Sherlock is impossible.

I don't think I'm supposed to be climbing stairs yet, but I don't really have a choice. I take them slowly, appallingly slowly if I'm going to be honest with myself. The flat looks less like a hazard zone than I had dreaded it would become. It's still not precisely clean, but I'd given up on that being the case on the day I moved in.

"Sherlock?" I call out.

He's draped across the sofa, fully dressed and thankfully without my gun in his hand. "Took you long enough," he mutters, springing onto his feet as I sink into the closest chair.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I murmur.

"Of course not. Mrs. Hudson made tea, though. You would like some, wouldn't you?"

I close my eyes in relief. "Yes please." I open them again only to take the mug he hands me. "No toxic substances in it?" I ask.

"Of course not."

There's pause then. I don't fill it because I can't think of what I would say, sipping instead at my tea.

"I'm sorry my actions caused you to be stabbed," Sherlock says eventually. His words have the air of a formula and of having been rehearsed one too many times to come out naturally anymore.

"It's not a problem," I reply carefully, "Unless you decide that it is."

I glance up to see Sherlock staring at me. Another long pause it is, then. At least I don't have to make my fears into words when he's around. "It's not one," he says firmly.

"Good." I try to sound just as firm.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome and appreciate comments, including constructive criticism.


End file.
